The Dog of the North (11 page)

Taking the steps two at a time, stumbling in the dark, Arren made his way up the stairs.

1

At King Fanrolio’s command, the musicians around the ballroom set up a leisurely air. These dances were designed to facilitate conversation rather than exercise.
Dancing was essentially a foppish activity, not suited to the military temperament, and Beauceron saw General Virnesto scowling as he looked for a chair; but Beauceron had always enjoyed it. He
could glide with a slow and easy rhythm and carried himself to advantage. If a suitable partner presented herself he would be happy to step out.

He noticed that Davanzato had swiftly secured Lady Isola’s company. The room was not awash with women who combined youth, beauty and crisp deportment, and Beauceron disdained to dance with
inferior materials. He resolved to wait the dance out until a partner like Lady Letteria or Lady Romina became available. He looked around to notice Prince Brissio’s eyes lingering on Lady
Cosetta hungrily. Her rich new gown of russet and burgundy set off her blonde hair. Presumably Davanzato, as her ransom agent, had provided it.

Cosetta was no longer any of his concern, but she could not profit from closer association with the loutish Prince Brissio. ‘Lady Cosetta,’ he called. ‘Would you do me the
honour?’

Cosetta turned away from Brissio and inclined her head. ‘Why not?’ she said with an approach to a smile. Brissio shot Beauceron a glance which he ignored: time to worry about his
cloddish antagonism later.

‘I trust you are settling in well to your new surroundings, Lady Cosetta,’ he said as they began their stately dance.

‘I cannot believe you are befriending me after all that you have done,’ said Cosetta without heat. Beauceron thought her eyes most becoming.

‘The past is the past, Lady Cosetta. For good or ill, we cannot change it. I am glad to see you embracing your new circumstances.’

She leaned forward and Beauceron caught a whiff of subtle fragrance. He deftly steered them out of the path of a less agile couple. ‘In truth,’ she said, ‘I am not dissatisfied
with events. I was travelling to Croad to be a penniless companion in an unfamiliar city. Here, it seems, I am esteemed on my own merits, under the protection of the King. This may not be the life
I would have chosen, but I do not expect either my father or Lord Sprang to ransom me. I find myself cast on my wits, and I do not fear the matter as I thought.’

She smiled for the first time in Beauceron’s experience; an expression that transformed her face. Never anything less than comely, now she was beautiful. How had he failed to notice
before?

The music drew to its stately conclusion and Beauceron took her hand to lead her to the upholstered chairs at the side of the room. ‘I am not a man to divulge my thoughts lightly,’
he said with a smile. ‘When I have done so in the past, I am invariably described as a monomaniac’

‘I do not claim to understand your thoughts, Beauceron; and indeed I have no particular desire to. You have brought me into captivity, and if that captivity is less oppressive than I had
feared, that is no reason to thank you. You have never treated me with anything other than calculation and indifference.’

Beauceron handed her a goblet and inclined his head. ‘I will not magnify my offence by specious denials. I have subordinated a great deal to achieve my goals, and that has included your
own convenience. But I may say that dancing here with you now, feeling the warmth of your person in my arms, my indifference seems inexplicable, and I heartily repent of it.’

Cosetta bit her lip against a laugh. ‘You kidnap me, subject me to every privation, give me away; and then you act as if nothing had happened and, if I am not mistaken, attempt to seduce
me. You have a short memory.’

Beauceron shrugged and sipped his own drink. ‘Whatever my faults, a short memory is not one of them. I forget nothing, and remember old slights as if they were yesterday. As to seduction,
such matters take two, and for now I merely attempt to secure your good opinion.’

Now Cosetta laughed openly. ‘You have some way to go. I may allow you to visit me in due course, but only because I admire your complete shamelessness. Listen, here is the Bocarillo and I
must secure a new partner.’

Beauceron stood to hand her from her seat and turned away as she engaged another young man’s attention. He moved away with a smile, looking around for Lady Letteria. His attention
distracted, he bumped into the man beside him.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

‘I shall not,’ said the man. ‘Do you not recognize me?’

Beauceron constrained his attention to the thin resentful countenance before him. ‘Albizzo.’

‘Just so, and your offences exceed a moment of clumsiness. We must discuss my sister.’

Beauceron frowned. ‘How is Etheria?’ he asked in a flat voice. He lifted his goblet from the table.

‘Well might you ask, sir,’ said Albizzo with an expression simultaneously sneering and self-pitying. ‘You might have displayed similar concern for her welfare before you
debauched her.’

Albizzo’s voice was shrill, and heads turned to look at them. ‘Albizzo, you only demean yourself ranting before the King.’

‘I demand satisfaction of you, sir. You must apologize – as you observe, before the King – or face my wrath.’

‘Your wrath?’ Beauceron raised an eyebrow.

‘Do not provoke me. Our family has held land in this city for generations. Etheria could have hoped for a good marriage before you defiled her.’ Spots of colour stood out on
Albizzo’s cheeks.

‘Must you transact your business in this way? I did not force your sister; she was, in fact, all too willing. If your family commands the respect you suggest, I cannot imagine her marriage
prospects materially blighted.’

‘Dog! Who would want a woman with a character compromised by a natural child?’

Beauceron set his goblet down. ‘A child?’

‘Yes, sir. You left her with a bastard and not a thought for her welfare. It is late now to affect concern.’

‘You mistake me, Albizzo. I care nothing for Etheria and less for her brat. She assured me with some babble of phases of the moon that the event you describe could not occur; more, it
seems, to comfort herself than me, for I was indifferent throughout.’

‘You are despicable. I can tell you now the child did not survive his birth one hour; and I intend that you should meet your son within the same period. You will fight me now, and may you
find Harmony.’

‘Do not be a fool, Albizzo. If you declare a duel to the death, be sure you are prepared for the outcome. Let us leave the matter aside.’

‘Not just a seducer but a coward too? I should have known that the boasts of the Dog of the North were hollow. I am glad the King has seen you for what you are.’ He turned away.

‘Enough, Albizzo. If you challenge me, I must respond. That is why I give you a chance to withdraw.’

Albizzo stepped so close that their noses almost touched. Beauceron could see that he was in trim condition, and his eyes glittered with a manic intensity.

‘Then I challenge you, Beauceron. We will fight this very night with the weapon of your choosing: the rapier, the broadsword, the knife, or hands. And it shall be to the death.’

Beauceron shrugged. ‘As you wish. I choose the rapier. If this is how you wish to achieve Harmony, I am on hand to help you.’

Fanrolio rose from his seat. ‘Come now, gentlemen, can you not be reconciled?’ he said in a wavering voice.

Albizzo and Beauceron turned to the King and bent the knee. ‘Your Puissance,’ said Albizzo, ‘if you command it, I shall of course withdraw my challenge, but the insult to my
sister remains grave. I beg you will not command me to forswear my honour.’

Fanrolio turned to Beauceron with rheumy eye. ‘Beauceron, your conduct does not appear beyond reproach.’

‘Your Puissance, events happened as they did. It is futile to wish them otherwise. The good Albizzo has impugned my honour and my courage before this august group. If he challenges me I
must respond.’

Fanrolio thought for a moment. Davanzato whispered in his ear.

‘Very well,’ said Fanrolio. ‘Albizzo is within his rights to demand satisfaction, and I will not tarnish his honour by demanding he withdraws his challenge. You may fight, but
outside. It is forbidden to draw steel in my presence.’ He beckoned to a liveried attendant. ‘Bring their arms and escort them to the courtyard. Name your seconds.’

Albizzo smiled. ‘I call on Massaio.’ From the side of the room a trim man in a bright green cloak stepped forward, making a bow. ‘I am honoured, friend.’

Beauceron had no obvious second to hand. Monetto was the usual choice but Beauceron was not sure where he was spending the evening. With a faint smile, he said: ‘I call on General
Virnesto.’

Virnesto stepped forward. He was beginning to thicken around the middle, and his hair was now more grey than black, but he radiated martial competence.

‘Really, Beauceron,’ said Virnesto. ‘We are hardly so intimate that I am your natural second.’

Beauceron bowed. ‘You are my comrade in arms: did we not range Jehan’s Steppe together? By custom you may not refuse me.’

Virnesto shook his head and scowled. ‘Indeed I may not, but I am vexed to leave the warmth of the dimonetto on such a night. It is an inconvenience.’

‘Albizzo will soon be facing the inconvenience of death. Your own vexation is minor in the context.’

‘Very well,’ said Virnesto. ‘The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.’

The attendant had brought the rapiers out, and the combatants belted them on and strode from the hall.

In the courtyard the moon was full. The ground had a thin skimming of ice, and Beauceron’s breath misted as he exhaled. He took off his cloak and waistcoat; Albizzo did the same. They
bowed to each other, and went to stand ten paces apart. It was too late for apologies now.

‘Fight!’ called Massaio.

They circled cautiously, blades outstretched. Beauceron was concerned about the slippery footing: he was confident he was the better swordsman, but he needed to be on his feet to show it.
Albizzo had planned the event, and no doubt had been training extensively.

Beauceron stepped briskly forward, feinted and lunged. Albizzo swayed to the side, parried effortlessly and counterattacked. Even as Beauceron slipped he noted that Albizzo was moving with a
sure-footed certainty. His planning had obviously extended to his footwear: his ribbed soles would give him an advantage over Beauceron’s everyday boots.

Beauceron recovered his slip and pushed Albizzo’s blade aside. The trick with the shoes was not strictly honourable, but he could not call for a halt in mid-duel. He stepped carefully into
the offensive. Head and feet, he thought. All swordplay began with the head and feet. As Albizzo parried him he slid to the side, with the centre of the courtyard to his back; Albizzo’s back
was now facing the wall and Beauceron aimed to force him back. But Albizzo came skipping forward, launching an assault studded with feints and lunges. This was crisp swordplay, the result of
extensive practice and a good master. Beauceron parried a lunge an inch from his throat: he was getting slack. Albizzo might be a duellist but he was no soldier: Beauceron kicked out to gain a
moment’s respite. Albizzo was ready for the move, feinted right and lunged left. Beauceron jerked aside but he felt a sting in his ribs: Albizzo had bloodied him.

Beauceron looked up and caught Albizzo’s eye. It gleamed with a crazed intensity, but the passion was suppressed in the swordplay. There was none of the carelessness of the fanatic in his
work.

In the moonlight and the glimmer of the torches the blood on Beauceron’s shirt looked black. It could only encourage Albizzo, although Beauceron judged the wound superficial.

Albizzo lunged again, this time disdaining a feint. He was keen to finish the fight. Beauceron stumbled aside and let out a groan.
Let him think I am sorely hurt.
He gave ground in the
face of Albizzo’s assault. As Albizzo chased him, Beauceron let his foot slide from under him on the ice. He lay on his side in the dirt and Albizzo leaped forward for the kill.

But as he made his killing stroke, Beauceron continued his roll on the ground, using his momentum to push him upright. Albizzo overstretched in following the movement, and Beauceron twisted to
catch him under the ribcage. Albizzo staggered back in astonishment, blood pumping from his chest. Beauceron stood watching in disappointment. He had hoped to spit Albizzo’s heart
directly.

Albizzo composed himself with an effort. He wrenched his sword into a defensive position. Then he swayed. ‘No,’ he said thickly. ‘Is this Harmony?’ He fell forward to the
ground, his blade slipping from his hand and clattering to the cobbles.

Beauceron stood some distance away, watching the pool of blood mingle with the ice melting from the heat of Albizzo’s body. He had seen death before; and he saw it now. Massaio stepped
forward, knelt, and turned Albizzo over, looked into his eyes and felt his pulse. He shook his head.

‘Beauceron is the winner. His honour is vindicated,’ said Virnesto.

Massaio stood up. ‘You killed a better man than yourself today.’

Beauceron said nothing. He felt nothing but weariness. He sheathed his rapier and walked over to Albizzo’s body. After inspecting the corpse’s feet, he pulled one of Albizzo’s
boots off. He banged it against the ground; slush fell from the treads. He laid the boot sideways on Albizzo’s chest so that everyone could see the ridged sole.

‘Take your better man and bury him,’ he said to Massaio. He turned and walked out of the courtyard with the moon at his back.

2

Beauceron allowed himself the luxury of a lie-in the next morning. An apothecary had applied a poultice to his wound and he felt disinclined for exertion. He rose stiffly
from his bed and opened the shutters. The aquavias glowered with winter darkness and there were a few flakes of snow settling on the paths. The wind insinuated itself around the casement and he
wrapped his cloak around his thin shirt. Against the chill he thought of the Summer King.